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Poem

On the skids with no brakes,
thankfully, a memory;
that began with falling,
falling over and over again,
with bruises that healed;
such is childhood.

I tried to attack the slippery slope,
challenged by youtube videos
that I could wisely imbibe;
teenager at heart was I…
to fall flat, flatter than a pancake.

As this was a few years back,
still a Big-Mac Grandmother;
a smucker-grape hugger.
Bigger than life;
life was bigger than me.

Who was I to inspire?
I lit my bum on fire.
Who am I to think
that each one was like the other?

Those grand-girls flew past me, in blurs.
The youngest boy, now ten,
screamed until I relinquished,
took off those skates
then circled the rink
as I chased him down.

His elder brother, held on for dear life,
just wouldn’t let go
of the skate mate;
but I am old,
or so I am told.

I grew up when no helmet
was required, where
seat belts were optional;
free to choose, “I will survive.”

So, do I think today’s kids
are wimps? I’ve joined
the ranks of wimpiness;
it is the key to living longer.

By the way, the kid
won’t climb a tree.
He sees each and every bug.
Were they there when I was young?

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